Page 10 of The Smuggler’s Escape

“You’re not dowdy, Lucretia! That barb was meant for Uncle Matthew and his penny-pinching, not for you. In any case, who cares what Richard thinks?”

“Noelle, how can you? Lord Boltwood is in the forefront of fashion and your affianced husband besides. His opinions will become yours, and pleasing him your highest wish.”

Noelle snapped her fingers. “That for Richard’s opinions.”

“Dearest, I hesitate to reprimand you, but this attitude is not a proper one for a wife towards her husband.”

“Nor is Sir Matthew’s attitude a proper one in a husband towards a wife,” Noelle retorted, but Lucretia merely sighed. Painfully, Noelle wriggled her thawing toes and yawned again.

“My poor love, you’re falling asleep on me. No wonder, after such an exciting evening.” She kissed Noelle and rose. “I shall miss you, but it’s a great consolation that you won’t be far away, and we shall see each other often.”

Noelle’s heart twisted. Fleeing England would cut her off from her aunt forever, and now that old Lord Boltwood was dead, there was no one to explain her departure. Perhaps, she thought sadly, she could correspond with Lucretia by way of the smugglers.

A half hour later, Uncle Matthew mounted the stairs, after loudly ordering his sleepy manservant to nail a plank across the broken window and lock all the doors. Noelle donned the front-lacing jump and coarse linen gown she kept hidden under her clothes press for smuggling occasions. On impulse, she unearthed her father’s old flintlock from the depths of her trunk. She had no reason to anticipate danger, and she had neither powder nor shot, so the weapon would be useless except as a deterrent. Nevertheless, she slipped it into the pocket of her wool cloak and set herself to wait some more. She suffered an agonizingly drowsy half hour, but finally the hall clock struck eleven. Reassured by her uncle’s noisy snores from a few rooms away, she locked her door, set the fireguard before the grate, and opened the casement window. The wisteria was by this season nearly naked of foliage. She tossed her cloak onto the path, climbed over the sill, pushed the window shut, and scrambled down the tangled vine.

So far, so good. She retrieved her cloak and crept across the gravel walkway and along the edge of the lawn toward the stables. No one woke to hinder her, and soon she had saddled and bridled Snowflake, the elderly mare Sir Matthew allowed her to ride. She had no reason to be afraid, for she knew everyone hereabouts, and she’d sneaked out at night now and then to aid in a smuggling run.

She led Snowflake out to the mounting block. The stable door closed with a stark thud in the silent darkness, but no one woke to stop her. She hoisted herself into the saddle, still unable to shake the uneasiness that had prompted her to bring her father’s pistol. It must be because of meeting Richard. His return to Sussex had put her completely on edge . . . Except that Snowflake too seemed restless, although she’d been exercised only that morning. She must have caught it from me, Noelle decided, and set off purposefully down the long drive. At the end she peered left and right along the road, which led in one direction to Chichester and in the other to the village. The wind flung clouds recklessly across the sky, and the waxing moon shone brilliant through the trees.

For this brief stretch, Noelle would be far too visible, at midnight on a white horse in the light of the moon. Snowflake’s ears pricked forward, and she gave a questioning whicker. Noelle urged her toward the village at a canter, keeping to the verge. Soon she would reach the well-worn path through the wood, which led directly to the back door of the alehouse. There she would be perfectly safe.

What if the excisemen were still out and about? She would need an excuse for going to a common inn after midnight. Another tryst? She shivered a little, recalling the look in Richard’s eyes when he’d heard about her flirtations.

She slowed Snowflake to a walk, seeking the entrance to the pathway. She despised Richard, and yet she didn’t want him believing her a loose woman—which was absurd, for he’d treated her like one. She hadn’t even enjoyed kissing those other men, except Tinker Johnny, whose kisses were comforting and kind. But Johnny wouldn’t do as groundwork for her plans, so she’d flirted with eligible gentlemen instead. Men of influence, which she deplored, but what choice was there when in desperate straits? The ruling classes could assist as easily as they could destroy.

She guided Snowflake onto the path. The moon between the trees shed enough light to pick up the pace again. Hurry, hurry, the wind seemed to say. An owl hooted off to the left. Small animals rustled in the underbrush, nothing for Noelle to fear, but she couldn’t shake off a feeling of pursuit. Surely the man from the Home Office hadn’t already come to arrest her!

No, she was imagining things. She dared not urge Snowflake faster than a trot, for unseen roots and rabbit holes might lurk below, and now and then she had to duck to avoid a low branch overhead. With one part of her mind she concentrated on her horse and the perils of the pathway, while with the other she searched for plausible reasons, other than a tryst, for being out alone at night.

The loud report of a pistol scattered her thoughts. Snowflake shied, snorting and sidling. Another gunshot sounded, followed by a loud whoop. Noelle wheeled Snowflake, pulling out her own pistol. She sent Snowflake cantering back the way they had come, but the whooping came quickly closer, accompanied by galloping hooves. The path back to the main road stretched dimly before her. She dared not push Snowflake faster on this uneven ground. If the riders didn’t catch up to her before she reached the road, they might see her fleeing toward her uncle’s drive and even follow her to his house.

She plunged Snowflake off the path and into the wood. They twisted and turned through the trees into deeper and deeper darkness while hoofbeats drummed ever closer along the path. Snowflake skittered past an oak and stopped dead.

“En avant!” she urged, but Snowflake didn’t budge. Back on the pathway, a horse and rider galloped by with another at its heels.

“Damn,” a familiar male voice said, and his mount, freed of a restraining hand over its muzzle, whinnied a greeting to Snowflake.